Feeling. Saying. Living. How was I supposed to do this?
The boys had obviously been here at the weekend, trashing the place with the mindset of coming back at some point to clear their messes. Or not? There were plates caked in mould on the table. Glasses on the floor in the living room. A half-eaten takeaway gracing the shelf in the fridge, and…the smell was not good. I needed to take the bins out, but I didn’t want to risk running into Mrs Patel next door and then have to explain myself.
Mrs Patel didn’t forget anything and was supposed to water my houseplants. Keep an eye on things.
Obviously not tidy up after Cal and Ed.
I shook my head again and let my body shudder in unease.
My boys. I was desperate to ring them, but? My phone was still locked away somewhere in a studio complex in East London, and I was here wearing nothing but pyjamas.
I’d showered at some point yesterday.
Slept. Tossed and turned. Agonised over things I had no control over.
I’d walked out. Just like that.
Simply and effectively gathered my belongings, throwing them in my holdall. Got rid of that suit that wasn’t mine and walked out wearing the tracksuit I’d arrived in. I hadn’t even said goodbye, just stomped out the door, and demanded the studio person call me a taxi.
They had. And I’d left.
Then…nothing. Because what was there to say? I refused to open the laptop that was sitting on my desk. Refused.
Mostly because of fear. Of having to handle all this. Fear was a powerful thing, and it was currently overwhelming every part of me. Even the sensible, rational part.
“Oh, Mary,” I panted out. “Fucking hell, Mary.”
I rarely cursed, preferring to stick to a calm manner. I had no idea where Peter Felton had gone because the guy standing here? No idea who I was supposed to be.
The words were spilling out into the silence, sharp syllables against the dusty surface I was leaning on. Random crumbs on the table, moving gently with every heavy breath I let escape.
“It was not for me. I need to remember that. I walked away because this was not for me.”
Who was I kidding? It was actually the truth. I hadn’t fallen in love. Not been swept off my feet. I’d been the neutral point in the middle. Needle in the white. No opinion, no sway.
So why was I feeling so incredibly guilty? I’d made no promises, nor had I broken any.
And there was the small niggling fact that I missed him. How insanely stupid was I?
“Mary, I have nothing to say for myself.” I spoke to the empty room. “Nothing. I probably treated him badly by doing this, but…”
But what, Peter?
Nothing, I whispered in my head.Nothing at all.
So instead I busied myself cleaning. Starting by the front door, meticulously working through the ground floor. Hoover. Mop. Dust. Tidy away. A bin-liner waiting by the front door. The minute I opened that dustbin lid outside? I would have given myself away.
I wasn’t supposed to be here. So why was I hiding?
For the first time today, I laughed at myself. Really laughed. I’d once been…
Work. I needed to get back to work, the sooner the better, so I could get my life back under control. And anyway, they would probably completely cut me out of the finished show because I’d been there like…three weeks? Four? Not much usable footage, and with me gone?
They would have someone else brought in for Oliver. Someone kind and handsome, his age, who would charm him and love him and give him…
I had no idea why I was even thinking that, standing in the bathroom with a rag in my hand, trying to wipe toothpaste splatter off the mirror.
The mirror where I couldn’t even meet my own gaze. The reflection mocking me as a swift rap on the front door shook me out of my destructive spiralling thoughts.
